


Warmth

by Heartstutter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:39:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heartstutter/pseuds/Heartstutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She endures after loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

The castle was quiet at last; no tasks to attend to, no guests to mind, no servants to greet in the hall. Only the guards on duty around the keep remained, and none who would pay her undue attention. It was the dead of winter and she clutched her cloak tighter about herself, lost in thought. The cold spurred her to walk swiftly to her chambers, though she slowed as she neared it. The closer she got, the more heavily it weighed on her. This was the space they had shared most often, most intimately.

Outside of their chambers, they had maintained propriety, even after wedding. They had not touched familiarly when others could see them, had not stood too closely to one another. He had addressed her by her title, _My Lady_ , despite the smirk that sometimes undercut it and spoke to his disdain for pomp. She had held to those courtesies that had been deeply ingrained in her, _My Lord_ falling from her lips much more easily. But inside their chambers, the burden of being Queen of the North fell from her shoulders, and she was just a girl. A woman. A _little bird._ His little bird, just as he was her Hound. And she felt free and light and loved.

They had spent countless hours in their chambers, idly talking, touching, making love. Other times, they had argued, cried, hurt one another with cruel words or heated outbursts. Still, it was those moments of kindness she remembered most vividly, when he would blunderingly apologize, when she would lower her armor for him and reach out to him in spite of her anger. When they had continually rediscovered one another and each argument felt like another journey they had gone through together, another scar that was a testament to their bond. 

At last, she reached the heavy wooden door. And as always, she steeled herself for a moment before being able to push it open to face the silence. No, it was more than that. It was the cold. She thought she had been born of the winter lands, and so would not mind the cold – would welcome it, in fact – and yet, it made her ache most of all. He had been warmth, he had been life. His blood ran as hot as his temper and it had made her come alive. Suddenly, she was assailed by the memories of his warm hands, how he had always _touched_ her, his calloused palms and rough-hewn fingers drawing her to him, holding her firmly. He never held her weakly. There was strength and power and safety in his touches, and gentleness too.

She recalled the first time they had lain together and she had woken in his arms, enveloped by the smell of him, heady and masculine and _warm_. She had been shy still and did not dare stir too much, lest she wake him. And so she had stayed nestled in the cocoon of his arms and had taken the time to study him. To look at him, with golden sunrays bathing his skin, highlighting the scars that adorned his chest, his arms, his face. The dark hair that ran from his beard to his neck, to his chest, and lower still. She had blushed then and felt giddy that she was truly his wife and he her husband. They had lain together and yet she had not had the chance to learn him, not really. It had been heated and urgent, and dark most of all. But waking with him holding her had made it real, dispelling the haziness of nighttime touches and replacing it with the surety that they belonged to one another. Their future had held many more days in which she woke first and had the chance to examine his sleeping form, when finally his brow unfurrowed and he appeared open, almost boyish in his vulnerability. But it was that first morning she remembered best of all, the novelty of it heightening her senses so that she could almost see him again if she shut her eyes, lying on his side with one arm under the pillow and another encircling her shoulder, palm resting against her back. Could almost hear the crinkling of the hairs on his chest under her fingers, and the deep, even sounds of his breathing. Could almost feel the warmth he exuded, combined with the heat of the sunlight dappling the bed.

A sudden noise startled her and she opened her eyes, did not realize she had closed them, only to be astonished by the dimness of the chamber. The only light came from the dying embers of the hearth. In her heart, she had almost expected it to be morning for true. But no, it was still deepest night, in deepest winter. And she had not felt this cold in such a long time. That strange noise came once more, and she was again astounded; it came from _her_. It was a choked, desperate sound and only when she felt warm wetness splash onto her hands as she reached for her face, did she realize she was crying. It made her tired, to be crying again, because she had thought she was numb now. She had thought that she had grown hardened to loss and pain and suffering, and that this was simply one more instance that she had had to endure, but it seemed her heart was still as tender as the day she had found out.

That day, he had ridden out on the vast lands surrounding the castle, not to survey them or to chase down enemy soldiers. He had simply been riding because his beloved steed had been restless, locked up as he had been in the stables for days on end. The warhorse’s temper had settled with age, though he was still as spirited as his master. She had not seen him since the morning, and it had been an uneventful morning. They had woken together, broken their fast in easy silence punctuated by affectionate glances and touches, then parted for the day. Even now, she could not remember the last words they had spoken to one another, could only remember a fond smirk he had given her as they broke their fast and he had wiped a crumb from her lip.

After that, she had been busy overseeing preparation for the feast that was to be held for the returning riders who had left weeks prior to round up any remaining Bolton men. And he had gone to the stables. The morning had been a gray one, that too she recalled, because she had worried a storm would delay the men and worsen the condition of any who were wounded. It had already occurred twice and the thought of it happening again had frustrated her.

When the squire had run in, frantically searching for her, she had been impatient with him, his eyes refusing to meet hers directly. Still, she had not suspected anything, but simply exhaled in expectation of news from the riders. She had snapped at him, _Liam!_ _Out with it!_ , and only then did he meet her gaze. The solemnity in his eyes was nothing new, he had lost both his parents early and seen much violence and bloodshed; no, it was the kindness in them that had told her. There was a pity in their green depths that spoke of wanting to shield her from something, to keep her ignorant and blissful just a bit longer. Her voice had trembled then as she questioned him but her tone was dignified, as befit a queen. _Tell me, what has happened?_ And he told her, _A fall_ , it had been a fall from his horse that had slipped in the rain-drenched hills and thrown him. She had nearly scoffed, a fall such as that would not have harmed him overly; he had survived much and more. But no, it was the outcropping of rocks that he had been thrown into that had done it. That was where he lay when the squire had come upon him. He had worn no helm, and he had been still. The horse, however, had been struggling on its side, a leg broken. The squire had seen to it then.

She had been disbelieving. Her Hound, he was the fiercest warrior she knew. Surely a fall would not be what took him away? In her disbelief, she demanded to see him, to be taken to him. The squire had protested, had said it was not safe to ride out to him in that weather, he had dared hold her arm as she made to reach the stables. And it was that which had hastened her on, made her desperate to disprove the boy’s claim. She recalled telling herself it was a jape, a boy’s silly prank, and that despite the fear in her heart, if she could see him alive and well, she would forgive the squire his jest and carry on as though nothing had happened.

As she rode out, with the squire and a guard in tow, she had bargained and reasoned with the gods. _Surely, you must keep him here with me? He has much to atone for. There are many who seek vengeance on him and how can they have justice if you have taken him away?_ She knew it had been silly, but as she had reasoned, she felt confident that if a man sought vengeance against her Hound, the Hound would win. She felt she was being sly by bargaining thusly. He could win against any man. But it was no man that had felled him.

When they reached him, the sight had horrified her. It was not the blood pooling on the ground that had done it, she had seen that enough in King’s Landing, with men’s arms getting chopped off and people getting trampled underfoot. No, it was the indignity of him lying there, in light armor and no helm, face turned skyward. Lying as helpless and vulnerable as when she awoke in his arms. That others should see him like this had enraged her, it had rend something within her, and she had wailed at the sight and wanted to cover him from their eyes. She had wanted to protect him and shield him from others, the way he had always done for her. So she had thrown herself on the ground and gone to him, to cradle his head in her arms and whisper nonsensical words to soothe him. For a moment, she almost thought he had moved to respond, to lift his head up. But it was only the wind, the wind from the oncoming storm that had simply rustled his hair. She had felt his warmth still, and it was that above all that had made her cling to a desperate, sticky hope. He was still _warm_! Life remained in him, and yet he did not stir. She did not know how long she had sat out there, as the wind picked up and the sky darkened.

In the end, he was gone; with no ferocity or fight at all, but quietly and alone. It hurt her most to think of him alone, as the sky grayed and the wind blew. Had he been frightened? Or lonely? Or maybe he had laughed and felt he had cheated a few happy years out of the gods. Might be it had happened so fast that he had had no time to think one way or the other. Still, the pain of not knowing ate at her and only the wind whistling sharply outside her chambers brought her back from her memories. Unthinkingly, she went to the chair beside their bed, _her_ bed now, and lifted the cloth to her face. It smelled of him and she could almost taste him on her tongue as she inhaled. She placed the tunic back down in order to drop her cloak to the floor, and in practiced movements, undid her robe and the laces of her dress. They crumpled quietly to the floor and she slipped his tunic on. Each night she performed this ritual and each night, she felt she lost him more and more. Slowly, her smell was replacing his and she had little and less to remember him by. She moved to the bed then, slipping quietly under the covers. It felt cavernous without his weight beside her but she found she drifted off to sleep more quickly these days, did not stay awake for hours staring into the darkened room. It was a numbing escape and her sleep was deep and dreamless.

The winter winds blew fiercely outside, but she knew out there the spring would come. Inside of her, however, lived a cold that would not thaw. His touch and breath had heated her, his eyes had ignited her, and his love had kept her warm. Without him, she was ice.


End file.
